Elisabeth Writing

This haunted, beautiful, electric city is already close to my heart. And day 3? It was full of adventures: haunted dolls, witchy shops, a local named Willy with all the historical tea, a cooking class, and some fantastic jazz music.

First and foremost: we had to have coffee. Luckily, whatever spirit haunted this place that first night seemed to have calmed down after I left a snickers bar as an offering on a small side table.

We ordered waffles, and bagels with lox. Thus fueled, we decided to go check out some of the amazing shops nearby.

The first shop we visited that day was Crescent City Conjure.

The shopkeeper was wearing small framed glasses, with a manicured beard and eyes that struck me as mysterious: filled with occult wonder and knowledge. His chicken (yes an actual, live chicken) wandered the shop with a sort of peckish curiosity that instantly charmed me. He asked about my own practice and talked about his, managing to be helpful without being overbearing. I ended up buying a bit too much but I couldn’t help myself.

After filling my bag with witchy goodies (also some from HEX! Another amazing shop) we ended up wandering over to The Haunted Sax.

The Haunted Sax enchanted me almost instantly. The two women there radiated good energy and a sort of quiet and gentle benevolence that was instantly comforting. The store itself was filled with treasures – dolls, musical instruments, jewelry – of “beautiful sadness” and links to past lives. The dolls, they told me, were vessels to spirits. But they were well taken care of here; dressed in beautiful clothing, draped in jewelry and lovingly tended. Next to each doll was a poem detailing what had happened to the spirit in the doll, and I spent some time reading all of them and feeling sorrow for these lovely lives; lost too young, or in tragedy. But they didn’t seem… sad . They seemed quite – content.

I was drawn to many of the things in the shop, but one sun-catcher pendant truly caught my eye.

The sun, the heart, the faerie riding the moon? It called to me in evert way. When I checked out, the lovely ladies of the shop talked about their shop, how they read people in the photos they take and post them on their Facebook page. They introduced themselves as: “The boozy witch and the boujee witch!” It made me giggle, and I felt a kinship there: a recognition. Matt and I posed for a photo, so they could post it with what their guides and their other psychic senses gathered from us (I’ll repost it here, with their permission). I loved it – the dolls, them, the shop itself. I mentioned to the shop-witches, that I would be writing about this place. And as I explained, I felt goosebumps break out across my body, several times. I thought that it was the dolls… that they, in a way, enjoyed the thought of being written about. The energy was palpable. As we turned to leave, I waved goodbye to the witches and said my farewells to the dolls.

Of course, we had to see the famous “French Market.” It was packed with vendors selling everything from pralines to precious jewelry, earrings to bejeweled elephant statues. We found wonderful gifts, hemmed and hawed over clothing and hats, admired the art and music. And then, we met Willy. Matt was checking out these very cool printed shirts – each done individually, by hand. He knew everything about music, talking in depth about The Doors and Muddy Waters, the jazz scene in New Orleans. His slow southern drawl and his gracious grin were completely charismatic. We could have listened to him for hours! Beyond music, he knew a thing or two about New Orleans history (read: all the things).

It felt like we had our own tour guide and history buff, right here in the French Market. We told him our own ghost story and he chuckled and said something like, “How about that. Very New Orleans!” I adored him. He then told us about 3 hotels we had to check out if we were ghost hunting – which, duh, we absolutely are. I asked him if I could take a photo and mention him on my blog and I was thrilled when he said yes. Guys… if you need some cool shirts and some fantastic history, please take a stroll over to The French Market and check out Willy and his amazing shirts, two of which we bought, pictured below.

And to round out the day… a cooking class. Gulp. I am more of a baker, personally, but Matt was very excited to learn how to cook some authentic Creole / Cajun recipe. I was extremely nervous. “The New Orleans School of Cooking” beckoned. I decided to wear my iconic lemon dress to give me a boost of confidence and because I thought it was funny – lemons and cooking. I mean, come on. Kind of perfect, no?

The front of the school was very homey, with wonderful books like “Food to Die For” – which I excitedly pointed out to Matt, because we already owned it. They also sold wonderful Grim-reaper tea strainers and cleverly packed bitters, beignet mixes and fun alligator chopsticks. We poked around until Chef Joseph ushered our group upstairs, to a well-lit classroom / kitchen area with separate stations for all of us doing the class. Our supplies were set before us. We were going to make:

–Duck and Andouille Gumbo

-Shrimp and Tasso Maque Choux

-White Chocolate Bread Pudding

(Again: nervous gulp!)

Before we began, we all introduced ourselves. Chef Joseph joked about handing me the Chef coat when I mentioned that I’d worked in restaurants for about a dozen years. He teased and laughed with all of us, and that, combined with his jovial smile and sparkling blue eyes, put me at ease. He demonstrated how best to use a knife and we got to work chopping vegetables (yes, even me; someone did, indeed, let me handle a knife). Were my vegetables the worst of all the chopped vegetables? Yes. Did I still do it? Yes.

Matt and I made friends with the couple stationed next to us. The woman, I’ll call her Jane, laughed with me about her husband’s terrible attempt at French toast (far too much cinnamon, so much that it was nearly brown!) and how he nearly blew up the kitchen the first time he used a gas stove. I, in turn, admitted that I was terrified of using a knife and was not the cook in the family; that honor went to my husband, Matt. The two made us feel at home, and I happily snapped a photo of them working in tandem and smiling into their wonderfully aromatic pot. The other couple hailed from Brooklyn, and I cheered on the younger woman, I’ll call her Emily, as she efficiently chopped her green onions. It felt like a real team. Matt and I took turns with stirring the roux, chopping vegetables, tasting and then seasoning the dishes.

And through it all, Chef Joseph was encouraging, hilarious and very efficient. He’d come by with a compliment and a teachable moment: “looking good, but let’s turn the temperature down a bit now?” He joked with the older couple and told the man ‘Bill’ that he was hired. When Bill joked back about the pay, Chef looked at him blankly and said: “Pay?” We all cackled.

It was one of the most fantastic experiences I’ve ever had. When we sat down to eat the meals we’d prepared, I felt a true sense of accomplishment and wonder. We’d made this, together. I grinned into Matt’s eyes and shook my butt in a happy booty dance on the stool before I dug in. And damn if it wasn’t good. I wanted to sign up for another class right away, learn everything there was to know, because where had this cooking been all my life? Where the hell had Creole and Cajun spice been in all those fruitless food searches? I was a convert to the church of New Orleans food.

Feeling thrilled and accomplished, we wandered over to the fantastic Halloween parade “Krewe of Boo.”

Women and men strutted about in Burlesque wonder, and we got to watch these two funny T-rexes; though whether they were dancing, kissing, or fighting, I still don’t know. We meandered over to Bourbon street for a while and then found our way to “The Vampire Cafe” where I could live out my adolescenct vampiric dreams. We even got the password to the vampire speakeasy “Potions” but… we got distracted.

A NOLA native chastised my husband for the placement of this photo: “No, no. You want her in the street, with that great background. Not in front of a trash can! Come on!”

He went about positioning me and telling Matt where to shoot and I gotta say… he had a point.

The energy was wild, almost manic, and we decided to head back to our own hotel and find a place where we could hear some Jazz. We wandered into the Blue Nile and listened to some of the best jazz I’ve ever heard in my life. By this point I was fairly asleep on my feet but when we took up a perch on the wall outside, like a few sleepy gargoyles, I found myself elated. Almost euphoric.

Because this city has everything. Music, haunts, teachers, dolls, charm… and I’m not done exploring.

Stay tuned!